


Carol Of The Bells

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown - G. K. Chesterton
Genre: Father Brown is here to look after him, Fluff, Gratuitous Charles Dickens references, M/M, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Sickfic, anyway Flambeau is sick and grumpy about it, back at it again with the shameless fluff, consider it an apology for skipping the Christmas Past prompt because I had zero ideas, it's me ya girl, love that for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27929659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: Flambeau has, for once in his life, fallen sick, and it would take a man with the patience of a saint to deal with a sick and grumpy Flambeau. Luckily, one such man just happens to be on hand.Written for the Crime & Christmas 2020 challenge, prompt 4: Bells
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Crime & Christmas 2020





	Carol Of The Bells

Hercule Flambeau, former notorious and feared criminal and current well respected detective, was currently feeling neither fearsome nor respectable. In fact, on the morning in question, he felt simply dreadful. He lay in bed, listening to church bells peeling outside the window, and decided he hated them. The cheerful sound seemed to mock his unhappiness, and the loudness of it all was causing him the most dreadful headache, and he was very, extremely, cross. He groaned, and pulled the eiderdown over his head.

Truth be told, he was one of those unfailingly hearty and healthy men who became ill extremely seldom, but that only served to make him an exceedingly difficult patient when he did. He despised resting, felt helpless and miserable every moment he was idle, and had a tendency to lash out with anger and general grumpiness at every attempt to keep him in bed, or to feed him soup or medicines, or take his temperature. Truthfully, it would take a man with the patience of a saint to play nursemaid to Hercule Flambeau.

Luckily, the bed Flambeau found himself confined to for the day happened to belong to just such a man. Father J. Brown, former of Cobhole in Essex, had been rushing in and out of the little room all morning, bringing fresh water, and plumping pillows, and making sure the fire was well lit. He seemed unfazed by the gruelling task, cheerful expression only ever shifting to be replaced by one of gentle concern and sympathy, whenever Flambeau coughed or groaned.

Flambeau hated this too, because he was absolutely certain he didn’t deserve it. Anyone else would merely have sent him home, and not tucked him up in their own bed, let alone taken the whole day off just to fuss around him like this. But Father Brown didn’t even show signs of abandoning him to his misery or kicking him out, even when he scowled at the mushroom soup the little priest had made for him, refused to drink it until it had gone cold, and then complained that it was cold. Father Brown had merely sighed and heated the soup up for him again.

 _Perhaps if Father Brown wasn’t so considerate, I wouldn’t have to hear those godforsaken bells all morning,_ Flambeau thought with a scowl.

Just then, from where he lay with his head under the blankets, he heard a gentle pattering of footsteps, as the little priest once more entered the room.

“Flambeau?” came a gentle voice. “Flambeau, are you alright under there?”

He then felt someone patting his head softly through the eiderdown. Flambeau poked his head out grumpily, and was greeted by a smiling round face.

“There you are!” said Brown. “How are you feeling?”

“Cross,” said Flambeau, but the Father only gave a fond chuckle.

The bells continued to peel outside the window. Flambeau scowled in the direction of the church.

Father Brown gave a faraway sigh. “I do think it’s lovely to hear the bellringers at practice, even on such a cold morning such as this,” he said.

 _He actually **likes** this,_ Flambeau thought. _Of course he does._

“You don’t enjoy the bells, Flambeau?” Father Brown asked in surprise.

 _How does he do that?_ Flambeau thought, in mildly feverish confusion. “Father,” he said, annoyed at how raspy his voice was. “You’d tell me if you could read minds, wouldn’t you?”

Father Brown laughed openly, a delightful, merry sound, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t _need_ to read your thoughts, Flambeau,” he said, unbearably fondly. “I can read your face.”

Flambeau opened his mouth to protest, but Father Brown hushed him. He began softly petting the Frenchman’s hair, and Flambeau hated how much he enjoyed the soothing gesture. “You needn’t worry, Flambeau dear,” the little priest continued, and Flambeau hated how much he thrilled at being called “dear”, too. “To most people, you’re exactly as enigmatic and unreadable as you aim to be. I just know you far too well, is all.”

“How long will they be at it, Father? The ringers?” he said in his small, unsure voice which he used so rarely, and which was reserved solely for the good Father. “It’s too noisy. It hurts. I hate it.”

A look of genuine sympathy flashed across the priest’s face. “Oh my poor dear Flambeau,” he murmured, running his fingers through Flambeau’s hair, brushing hairs away where they stuck to his hot damp forehead. “At least another hour yet, I’m afraid.”

Flambeau groaned. Another _hour?_ He couldn’t take this. He should die presently and be done with, he decided.

Father Brown chewed his lip in quiet thought, before softly leaping to his feet, removing his hand from Flambeau’s head. Flambeau whimpered in protest before he could stop himself, and he couldn’t tell whether it was the cool touch to his hot head or the soothing affection that he missed.

“I’ll tell you what,” said the Father, padding across the room to a small bookshelf. “I’ll read to you. It won’t make the bells stop, but it might be a nice distraction?”

Flambeau pondered this. “What would you read, Father?” he asked, suspiciously. “Not the Bible?”

Father Brown gave a quiet laugh. “No,” he said. “No, I doubt somehow that would bring you the same comfort it might bring me. What about this?” And he swivelled around to face Flambeau once more, proudly brandishing a weathered and tatty volume at him. “It’s a favourite of mine,” Brown added, meekly, his cheeks flushing a little. “I may have read it rather too often. It’s a classic, but appropriate for the season, wouldn’t you say?”

Flambeau peered at the worn cover. _Charles Dickens_ , he read. _A Christmas Carol._ “A Christmas Carol, Father?” he rasped, out loud. “I have to confess, I’ve never actually read it.”

Father Brown gasped at this, in a rather dramatic fashion. It made Flambeau forget his discomfort and misery for just a moment and laugh to himself. It tickled him no end that Father Brown was more scandalised by his never having read A Christmas Carol than he was any of Flambeau’s numerous crimes.

Father Brown’s blush spread. “Well,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s good to see you smile again, at least.”

Flambeau almost tried to scowl again, just out of the principal of the thing, but he found he barely had the energy. Instead, he said: “Alright, Father. I’ll let you read it to me. If you must.” And then, softly, weakly, as though defeated, he added: “I’d like you to. Truly.”

Father Brown beamed at him once more, and took his place on the edge of the bed, clutching the book. He absentmindedly began petting Flambeau’s hair once more, and began to read:

 _“Marley was dead: to begin with,”_ he read, in a slow, careful voice. _“There is no doubt whatever about that.”_

And as the bells continued to ring outside, Flambeau found he did not care one bit.


End file.
